


Under the Briar

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Horcrux Hunting, M/M, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 21:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15827706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: When Voldemort confines all of Hogwarts and Dumbledore dies, Harry must work with an unlikely ally to save his friends from an eternal sleep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I took this down a while back, but thought I'd repost it after a bit of editing. It's an old fic, but idk, I find it cute. 
> 
> Originally written for a challenge on the HPFC forums.

Once upon a windy, rainy April day in northern Scotland, the entire population of Hogwarts sat in the Great Hall, eating, chatting, and complaining about their professors. The Golden Trio, as they were dubbed by various well-wishers and those who believed in the prophecy, sat at the center of the Gryffindor table. Harry Potter, aged sixteen and a half, was at the very middle of the table, with his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger to his right and left. For the moment, there was an awkward silence between them as they ignored the topics of Ron’s relationship with Lavender, Harry’s use of a mysterious and possibly illegal potions textbook, and Hermione’s panic over the final exams looming in the quickly approaching distance.

Due to the silence from his best friends, Harry was forced to overhear (and to try very hard to ignore) gossip from the other students in his vicinity.

“Oh, Draco Malfoy just looks so dreamy!” whispered a younger student, talking very quietly since she sat near Malfoy’s sworn rival. She glanced over at Harry, who hadn’t been able to keep his lips from turning downward in a scowl, and gave him a small glare. “Well, he does!”

“Who wouldn’t fall for—” her friend waved her fork in a motion that encompassed Malfoy’s body, her piece of pie almost falling into Harry’s plate “—that?”

Under his breath, Harry muttered, “Who would?”

It wasn’t that Harry was upset that this specific group of girls had finally stopped talking about Harry’s own looks (he was damn happy about it, actually) and moved on to someone else’s. His problem was that their new choice of topic was downright disturbing. Draco Malfoy, evil Slytherin and eternal pain in Harry’s arse, was nowhere near dreamy. In fact, he was extremely suspicious and the son of a confirmed Death Eater, as well as a possible (and probable, as he’d told his friends many times) Death Eater himself. Harry’s feelings for Malfoy were very clear: hatred. Not that the facts mattered when compared to his looks, according to what felt like every girl in her second year and up said.

Harry glared at as he stuffed mashed potatoes in his mouth to keep himself from yelling at the underclassmen as they once again swooned. His dinner was being ruined by Malfoy again, and the bastard wasn’t even here to ruin it himself.

“He’s a bloody Slytherin,” Harry said to Ron and Hermione. “That should be enough to hate him. And he’s suspicious, too.”

“The only thing suspicious is why you keep stalking him,” Hermione elected to say. “And it’s not like he’s a troll,” she added wistfully. “I wish some people could be as classy as he looks.” She pointedly did not look at Ron, but Ron blushed angrily all the same.

“He looks like a pretentious arse,” Harry grumbled as his friends got into another argument. Draco Malfoy was a pointy, unattractive git, and Harry would swear by it any day of the year.

*

In between Harry’s near-constant observation of Malfoy, which led him to conclude that Malfoy liked to take long walks around the school and school grounds, eat toast with raspberry jam, and stay locked in the Room of Requirement for hours every weekend, he also found time to study Voldemort’s past with the Headmaster. After Dumbledore had ignored him during his fifth year, Harry was glad to be on good terms with his Headmaster again. He even enjoyed their studies, even though they didn’t study spells or defenses like he would have been keen on. And it was on one of these meetings, only a few days after Aragog’s funeral, that Harry received another piece of bad news: Voldemort had struck the Order’s headquarters.

“But they were under Fidelius,” he said, grasping for straws. The Fidelius Charm was the most powerful secrecy spell he knew of. Harry was shaken after hearing the news, and Dumbledore looked outwardly worried as well. To hear that Voldemort had broken it was devastating. If he could break a spell as powerful as Fidelius, who knew what kinds of spells he could break next? Could he break the wards around Hogwarts? Or Harry’s mother’s protection? “How could he even get in?”

“The spell wasn’t broken,” Dumbledore answered with a sigh. He sipped at his tea for a long moment, as if unsure of what he was saying. “It seems that one of our own members was compromised. Nothing was taken, that we’re aware of, but your house-elf Kreature was found dead inside the house.”

“It was Snape,” Harry said quickly. “You know he’s been working for Voldemort all along, and trying to help Malfoy, and—” He stopped there, because like always, Dumbledore wouldn’t listen to him. He wouldn’t listen to how treacherous and cruel and evil Snape was. And now because of Snape, Sirius’ house couldn’t be used as a safe house, and Harry wouldn’t be able to go back there just in case something had been done to it. Snape would’ve even done it gleefully, just to get back at Sirius one last time.

“Severus could not have showed the way to Voldemort. He was bound by the Fidelius Charm as strongly as you were. He is loyal to the cause, just as any member of the Order of the Phoenix. I wish you would keep that in mind, my boy,” Dumbledore replied. Harry noticed he didn’t say what Snape had been doing when the house was attacked, or give him any proof of his innocence. Dumbledore just expected Harry to trust him in this as in everything else, but Harry couldn’t do that. He refused to just blindly trust a man who hated him and betrayed his parents, just because Dumbledore believed he still had some good in him.

 _Loyal to the cause, my arse. Maybe to Voldemort_ _’s cause, but not mine,_ he thought, but knew better than to say it. He didn’t want to be lectured on how he should change his mind about Snape.

“What happened to Kreature?” Harry asked instead.

Dumbledore’s face gentled, and Harry tried to keep from scowling. So what if he’d decided to be mature about Snape and not keep trying to disparage him. But he also felt oddly pleased, that Dumbledore noticed he was trying to grow up. Never mind all the things Dumbledore wouldn’t tell him—he valued the Headmaster’s opinion above almost everyone else’s.

“I believe it was the Killing Curse,” Dumbledore replied. They both resolutely didn’t mention that this was another person—or sort of a person—Harry knew who had fallen to that curse. He wondered if Kreature’s last moments had been anything like his parents’. If he had cursed Voldemort, or Snape, or whoever had killed him, or if he had begged for mercy. “His death was fast, and without torture.”

Harry couldn’t say he grieved for the house-elf that had ratted Sirius out to the other side, but he was still saddened by his death. Kreature was one of the few ties to Sirius he had left, even if it had been an unwilling tie.

While Harry thought, Dumbledore added, “The house appears to have been searched for something. I do not know if the object or the information they were looking for was found, but the house has been compromised. We won’t use it as a safe house any longer.”

It made sense. Sirius would’ve been happy they were finally moving out of the wretched place. “I guess you’re using the Burrow now? Is that safe for the Weasleys?”

Shaking his head, Dumbledore said, “It is not, but we are only infringing on the Weasleys’ kindness for a short time while we look for other options.”

Dumbledore carefully lifted the Pensieve from its shelf once again, along with a familiar stoppered vial. “And now, Harry, I will show you one last memory before I ask you to join me in the search for a horcrux. I had wished to wait, but there is no time. If Voldemort attacked the Headquarters, he may have uncovered information on one of the horcrux locations. We will go after it tonight.”

Harry nodded grimly. This was what he’d been waiting for all year: finally learning something real from Dumbledore. It was going to be a little dangerous, too, but Harry wasn’t going to worry when he finally had Dumbledore at his side on one of his adventures.

Harry left Dumbledore’s office with a heavy heart, feeling both delirious with expectation of that night and sick with worry for the future. Although Dumbledore had seemed only mildly perturbed at their meeting, Harry knew that behind his calm manner was worry that they would not get to the horcrux in time. That was why they were going that very night instead of later, after Dumbledore had more time to plan. He was also grateful that Dumbledore had kept his promise to bring Harry to uncover the horcrux. If something went wrong, Dumbledore would have at least one loyal wizard (even if Harry was still young and half-trained and didn’t know as many complex spells as an older wizard would) with him.

Since he had no time to do anything tonight, Harry decided to hold off on asking Hermione to help him research the Fidelius Charm more thoroughly. He had to meet Dumbledore in two hours, which meant he had time to put on something warm, dig up his invisibility cloak (not hard, since he frequently had it in his pocket or schoolbag), and check up on Malfoy. So like most days, he followed a winding staircase to the Room of Requirement.

Though this time, Malfoy was coming down the staircase as Harry walked up. Harry wished he had put on his invisibility cloak first—that way he could easily follow Malfoy to wherever he was going now, instead of having to scan his map and double back.

Malfoy looked the same as he ever did: his black school robes perfectly pressed, his hair gelled down neatly, the rest of his body a total wreck. He’d noticeably given up using a glamour on himself. Dark circles had taken over his eyes, his face was a blotchy mess of reds and whites, and his robes hung off his too-thin frame. In all, he looked like a walking mess.

Harry knew Malfoy’s mission, whatever it was, wasn’t going as planned. If it was, he would be gloating and bragging and acting like he owned the world—not becoming paler and more withdrawn each day.

And he was holding the gaudiest crown Harry had ever seen. He held it between the fingers of his left hand, careful and wary at the same time. Harry would have done the same—the crown looked like it could infect you with ugly. Maybe it was the result of a messed up spell of Crabbe’s or Goyle’s.

“Making a present for your master?” Harry asked, almost imitating Malfoy’s sneer. The snot barely glanced at him, which was weird. Usually Harry got some sort of angry response from his rival.

“Go to hell, Potter,” Malfoy tonelessly replied, shoving past him.

Harry watched him leave, then returned to the Gryffindor tower and followed Malfoy’s  movements with the map until he had to meet Dumbledore.  All Malfoy did was stop by the Slytherin common room and take a long, looping walk around the castle.

 

*

 

Three hours later, Harry stumbled into an alley between The Three Broomsticks and Zale’s Roses, a horcrux in his pocket and Dumbledore holding on to his arm. He silently prayed that Dumbledore wasn’t dying. He couldn’t die, couldn’t die just for a horcrux, no matter how important it was.  But when Harry apparated into the alley, he was immediately assaulted by the noise in the streets of Hogsmeade. There was shouting all around them, the sounds of battle and spellcasting. Above him was a bright green symbol of a skull with a snake crawling out; they had raised the Dark Mark over the village.

From what Harry could see from their hiding spot, there was a whole mass of Death Eaters attacking the village. He could see Madam Rosmerta across from the alley, being Crucio’d by a masked Death Eater. He was about to run and help her, but in a pause between the Death Eater’s spells, she struck, stunning him and binding his body.

“Professor!” he whispered as loud as he dared. “What do we do?” They wouldn’t be able to get to Honeyduke’s or the Haunted Shack without being attacked, and they had no other means of transportation.

Dumbledore focused his watery eyes on the scene. He still looked like he was just barely hanging on to consciousness, but Harry was glad for any evidence that showed Dumbledore was still alive. If only Madam Pomfrey were with them… Hell, he’d even take Snape, and be civil to him, if he would just help Dumbledore through this. “Harry, do you remember the path to the village? There is an elm tree on the road. The wards start just a meter beyond it. Imagine appearing before it. Hurry, they may be attacking Hogwarts as we speak.”

After a moment of concentration, they were at the tree, away from the fighting at Hogsmeade. Harry could still hear fighting in the distance, could still hear screams and shouting. He wanted to help badly, but if Hogsmeade was that bad, Hogwarts could be even worse. The castle seemed calm at a distance, but Voldemort could already be inside. There was no Dark Mark over the castle, unlike the one over the Three Broomsticks.

Half-supporting each other, they raced toward the castle, coming nearly to the wards when a half-translucent white barrier rose from beneath the ground and ascended high above their heads. It shimmered in the air as it closed around the entire castle in the largest half-circle Harry had ever seen. Then, after encircling the entire castle, the barrier disappeared as quickly as it had risen, leaving no trace of it being there at all.

Harry reached out to touch the place where it had been, wondering if he could go through it, but Dumbledore held him back.

“Wait for now,” Dumbledore cautioned, pulling out his wand.

“But—” my friends are inside. They could be being tortured, or dying, or…

“Your promise, Harry,” Dumbledore reminded him, then tapped his wand against the barrier. Light red runes appeared in the air, spreading from the point his wand touched to farther than Harry could see, wrapping around Hogwarts like the barrier had. Whatever Dumbledore had done had caused the barrier to show itself. Harry tried not to worry about how much Dumbledore’s hand shook or how he was still physically supporting his mentor. He concentrated on the fact that he couldn’t hear anything from inside the castle. He didn’t see the flash of spells or faces in the windows. He didn’t hear fearful screams or dark voices yelling, “Crucio!” The castle was quiet, unharmed.

But with the way Dumbledore’s face instantly paled at seeing the runes, Harry knew it couldn’t be that easy.

“What is it, sir?” Harry asked anxiously. “Can we go through?”

“We cannot. This—this is a hostage curse over the entire castle—and a very dark variant of it. Harry, stay here. Whatever happens, do not let my wand leave the barrier.” He kept his wand tip touching the barrier, chanting in a language Harry didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter because Ron and Hermione and everyone in the castle was going to die if Voldemort managed to take them hostage. Harry hadn’t even known wizards could do such a thing. Voldemort must have somehow altered Hogwarts’ wards, or found a loophole that let him do something like this.

“Elves!” Dumbledore suddenly called, and nearly a hundred elves appeared at once. For a moment Harry could see the shimmering, translucent shackles that bound the house elves to Hogwarts. Either he was delirious from the effort of apparating them across the country, or Dumbledore’s chanting was powerful enough to reveal any and all magic in the area. “Put every person in the building in their beds, if they aren’t already. Nothing sharp must be around them, lest they hurt themselves when the ward activates.”

“What are you going to do, professor?” Harry asked.

“I can change the wards. They’ll still be kept hostage—asleep until the victor claims the castle—but I can make it nearly impossible for anyone to get inside. My boy, you will have to find a way to save them.”

“Can’t we help them? Yell, send an owl, anything?”

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “It’s too late; the first stage has taken. I don’t know how he’s doing this; by all rights, the spell should be achieved by twelve adult wizards spaced at even intervals just outside the wards, funneling their magic for as long as the hostage spell is needed, but I see no one.” By the end of his sentence, his voice started to waver. “Hold up my hand, please.”

Harry did, trying not to shake because this was too important to be afraid, and continued to hold it up as the runes on the barrier started turning darker. Harry had never seen Dumbledore struggling with magic so much that beads of sweat ran down his face. Dumbledore ignored his offer of help when Harry asked if there was anything else he could do. Harry wasn’t sure he even heard him.

“Potter!” a voice yelled. Harry looked up and saw that beyond the runes, Draco Malfoy was running towards them.

Not now, Harry thought. What was Malfoy doing out here?

He twisted, reaching into his pocket to grab his own wand, which he pointed at Malfoy with his left hand. He couldn’t fight like this, not when he needed to hold up Dumbledore’s wand and body, but he could still point a wand at Malfoy.

But if Malfoy was going to try to curse them, he was taking his sweet time with it. He stopped outside the barrier just across from them. He bent down, resting his palms on his knees and breathing heavily, catching his breath from what Harry guessed was a long sprint from the Slytherin dungeons. Why had he come outside? It was past midnight. By all logic, Malfoy should’ve been asleep in his bed, unable to go out because of Snape’s nightly patrols.

Through his pants for breath, Malfoy said, “I can help you, Potter. The Dark Lord—he—I want to join the other side.”

Harry stared at him blankly. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?” Did Malfoy really believe he’d fall for this? “You’re a bloody Death Eater. This is just a trap. You’re spying for Voldemort, or your father, or whoever.”

In his arms, Dumbledore’s body sagged. His chanting, already broken and quiet, turned to a whisper. Harry couldn’t breathe. Dumbledore was going to die. And if Dumbledore failed, if the whole castle became Voldemort’s hostages, even more people would die. Voldemort had no use for muggleborn and blood traitor hostages, after all. It was either their lives or the lives of everyone in the castle, and Harry knew without a doubt what Dumbledore would want him to do. Harry would never be able to live with himself if Ron and Hermione died in there.

“Dammit, Potter, for once your life just say yes,” Malfoy pleaded in a tone Harry had never thought he’d hear from him. “I didn’t know. I thought what I did would just let the Dark Lord inside, not take over the whole castle. Please, I tried to help, but it wouldn’t work. It was already too late.”

Malfoy looked more sincere than Harry had ever seen him, and was nearly begging, while Dumbledore was almost dead. They were all alone in the darkness, the moon bright above them, illuminating Malfoy’s terrified gray eyes.

Harry hated him. He hated everything that Malfoy represented: the kind of person who could do whatever he wanted, things that hurt people, and then wanted a second chance. He didn’t believe Snape had changed after his Death Eater days. Lucius Malfoy certainly hadn’t, no matter what he’d told the ministry for so many years. Malfoy was no different.

But Dumbledore, the man who was dying in Harry’s arms, would’ve given him a chance.

For Dumbledore, Harry said, “What do I have to do?”

“Just agree.”

“I agree. But if you’re doing this just to trick us, I will Stun you so hard you’ll never wake up again.” And agreeing to Malfoy’s help certainly wouldn’t make Harry trust him.

Malfoy began to say something, but choked on his words. His hands flew to his throat, massaging it, while his wide gray eyes locked with Harry’s. Harry almost instinctively reached out to help him, like he would for anyone else, but he remembered Dumbledore’s words in time. In the back of his mind, it registered that Dumbledore had stopped chanting completely.

Harry watched Malfoy gulp in fear, watched his eyes close and his body fall over in place, watched his body be caught and apparated away by a quickly appearing house-elf, one who looked on the verge of passing out himself. He imagined Ron and Hermione doing the same in the tower. They’d probably stayed up late just to make sure he got back okay. It looked like he wouldn’t get back to Hogwarts tonight. Or maybe ever.

The runes had stopped darkening, staying a dark red color. Dumbledore’s wand dropped from his hand, and his entire body crumpled like Malfoy’s had only a moment before. Harry dropped down on his knees and rested Dumbledore’s head on his lap.

“It’s done. The spell is active,” Dumbledore said in a raspy voice. His eyes were closed. He wasn’t even trying to open them.

“Sir, don’t talk, I’ll get help,” Harry told him. He was starting to tremble himself. Where was Dumbledore’s wand? It had fallen somewhere, but Harry couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything except Dumbledore lying there, barely moving.

“My boy, you must go to Loch Orsare. Key… in my pocket. And remember the horcruxes. There are only four more. The locket, the snake, two others… And—”

His voice dropped to a whisper, lower than Harry could hear. Harry didn’t know if that was because Dumbledore’s voice had faded, or if the pounding in his ears had grown too loud.

“Professor,” Harry said, his voice strangled. Or maybe he’d said something else. He didn’t know.

He took Dumbledore’s wrist and felt for a pulse. For a moment, he thought he felt Dumbledore’s heartbeat, but it was only his shaking hands. There were tears in his eyes when he finally realized Dumbledore was dead.

Harry looked back at the barrier, thinking stupid thoughts of running across to find his friends. What did it matter now that Dumbledore was dead? Harry had escaped death so many times. Maybe he’d do it once more. Maybe his mother’s lingering protection would shield him from falling asleep.

It was only because he was looking so closely that he noticed the ground had begun to move. Just in front of the wards, the Hogwarts lawn spread open, blades of grass growing taller. The grass thickened, became vine-like, and grew until it was a few centimeters wide. Then, as though the barrier was solid to it, it wrapped around the barrier and grew toward the sky building over the barrier.

In mere minutes, Hogwarts was covered completely by the vines. Then the vines grew large thorns, and small flowers, and weaved closer and closer together until Harry couldn’t see even a little of Hogwarts. A green dome had formed over Hogwarts and the place that Harry called home was engulfed completely.

Dumbledore’s final attempt to protect Hogwarts.

Harry sat there, unmoving, until he heard voices. Spurred into action, he draped the invisibility cloak over himself and Dumbledore—Dumbledore’s still, unmoving body, he thought with a silent sob—and listened to what the newcomers were saying.

“The hostage curse worked, I can feel it,” Bellatrix Lestrange—he would know her voice even in the dark—said.

“My son—he fulfilled his duty?”

“More than that, Lucius. The Dark Lord will be pleased with him. But… I don’t know what this defense is. We must alert him of it immediately.”

The pair apparated away.

When he was sure they left, Harry closed one hand around Dumbledore’s wrist—it was still warm, and he didn’t know why that surprised him but it did—and the other around Dumbledore’s wand. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t allow the Death Eaters to find Dumbledore’s body or to find Harry himself. He’d have to apparate again, hopefully without splinching himself this time, either.

He couldn’t even use magic to lift Dumbledore’s body properly. The last thing he needed was the ministry trying to find him in addition to the Death Eaters. And who knew who was watching Harry’s ministry file. But—did apparition count as underage magic? A letter hadn’t arrived after he’d apparated to Hogsmeade, and it had been at least an hour since.

It doesn’t matter, Harry thought. Hogwarts was under siege. If the ministry wanted to go after him, it would have to do it after the war. Both it and Harry had too much to do now.

He’d go to the Burrow. It was the safest place he could think of, now that Hogwarts was out of the question.

And… Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would no doubt have a shovel somewhere and would know the proper rites of burial. Harry had never even gone to a funeral before. He had no idea what Dumbledore would have even wanted—for all he knew, his mentor could have preferred cremation, like his phoenix familiar. He knew Dumbledore would have wanted the Weasleys at his funeral, though. They could even summon the Order and have a proper gathering. Kingsley would say the Order oath, Mrs. Weasley would cry, and the twins would set off some discrete fireworks. Then they would actually plan the rescue of Hogwarts.

He apparated down the street from the Weasley’s house, far enough that if there was someone watching the house, they probably wouldn’t have heard his pop of air displacement. He knew almost immediately that something was wrong when he didn’t see the roof and top floors of the Burrow in the distance.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

No. No—they couldn’t have—no—

But when he ran down the street and onto the Weasley’s property, the Burrow was only a pile of ashes. Under the moonlight, Harry saw a few things still recognizable in the rubble—Mrs. Weasley’s clock, half melted and charred, all hands on mortal peril; Mr. Weasley’s car tools in the place where the shed used to be; a soot-covered Bludger that wasn’t even trying to fly away—but everything else was too blackened to tell what it had been. Even the chicken coop had been burned down.

Harry didn’t see any bodies, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Cold shivers ran down his spine. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley couldn’t be dead. Harry had only just seen them that summer, not so long ago. They couldn’t be dead already. Not when Dumbledore had just died. He had to believe they were alive somewhere and had only gone into hiding.

Staring at the burned down husk of the place Harry had thought of as a second home, Harry tried to remember if he knew where any of the other Order members lived. But it was futile; as well as he’d gotten to know Remus and as friendly as he was with a couple others, he just had no idea. For Merlin’s sake, he didn’t even know where Bill lived!

Shaking, trying not to panic, Harry left quickly. He couldn’t stay here, where Death Eaters could so easily come back.

He chose a location wildly, instinctively, and settled on the Forest of Dean, where the Dursleys had once gone camping.

He appeared on a small hill in the middle of the forest. As a child, he’d gotten lost here, and the Dursleys had almost left without him. But now, Harry was too exhausted to remember that day, or to even be scared of the wild animals around him. Harry laid Dumbledore on the ground, covered him with his cloak, and collapsed a fair distance away.  He didn’t even have the energy to start a fire.

It wasn’t fair for Dumbledore to lie there, unwept by the majority of the nation. Harry couldn’t even give him a proper burial. He couldn’t dig through the cold ground without a shovel, and couldn’t get a shovel one without magic or money. He was useless at the moment. All he could do was rest his head on the ground and swear to himself that Dumbledore’s sacrifice had not been in vain. And, if it was true, if the Weasleys were dead, they would be avenged.

He slept restlessly, waking up many times expecting the comfort of the Gryffindor tower, only to find the silver thread of his invisibility cloak and the person it covered and tear up again. By morning, he had no tears left to cry. It wasn’t fair that he was the only one crying—everyone should cry for such a great man’s death—but he couldn’t do anything about that. Not yet. He finally fell into a deeper sleep in the early morning, the faint sunlight on his eyelids making him think of his bed in the Gryffindor tower.

In his dream, he was in the common room again, standing beside Ron and Hermione and drinking butterbeer after winning a Quidditch game. Ron and Hermione were there with him, laughing about something. They were all on good terms again. Ginny was sitting nearby, teaching her pigmy puff to jump through hoops. Dumbledore was up in the castle somewhere, alive and whole. Harry couldn’t imagine being in a better place.

“This is exactly what I thought you dreamed of, Potter,” a familiar voice sneered. It felt wrong in his happy, comfortable dream.

Harry didn’t turn around, wanting to go back to how things were, but Ron and Hermione and the rest of the partying Gryffindors stood frozen. The only moving person was someone who Harry didn’t want to dream about.

“Get out of my dream, Malfoy,” he said, unable to muster the energy to really yell at Malfoy like he deserved. He was just tired. Tired of people dying, tired of not having his friends nearby. Tired of the world.

With a snort, Malfoy snapped his fingers and all the other dream-figures in the room disappeared. “Gryffindors make me itch,” he said in explanation, taking his friends’ place on the couch as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Looking more closely, Harry noticed that Malfoy looked a lot more like he had last year than this year: more filled out, less pale, without dark circles around his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked. If this was really Malfoy (and it had to be, because Harry didn’t dream about evil Slytherin gits—or at least he wouldn’t admit to dreaming of them), then he looked very awake for someone stuck inside Hogwarts.

“You agreed, remember? That I could help you. Well, you were agreeing to this. I’m going to be asleep until you, or someone more reliable, wake the castle up. I might as well use the time well.” The bastard even looked a bit smug at finding a loophole that got him out of Hogwarts, even if it was just into someone else’s dreams.

Harry clenched his fists, trying to keep himself from punching Malfoy. As much as he wanted to punch him, he needed to know what he was after. And how he was here in the first place, provided Harry’s grief-stricken mind hadn’t dreamed him up. “Use your time well? While everyone I know is stuck there, at Voldemort’s mercy?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Potter,” Malfoy said with a wave. Then, as he caught Harry’s utterly un-amused expression, he sat up, and even moved over so that he wasn’t in the place Hermione and Ron had been sitting seconds ago. “Dumbledore saved them, didn’t he? He stopped Voldemort from being able to get inside.” But his voice was unsure.

Malfoy didn’t know, Harry realized. He didn’t know if the castle had been taken. “Did you know? Did you know he was planning to hold the whole castle hostage? Probably kill off anyone whose blood doesn’t meet his standards?” Because if Malfoy had known, and still did nothing… Harry didn’t know what he’d do. He’d always thought only Voldemort deserved death, but someone who had sentenced little innocent muggleborn first years to death wasn’t much better.

“No!” Malfoy yelled. He even sounded honest. “All I was ordered to do was smuggle objects in and bury them around the castle. That’s all. I swear on my life, Potter, that’s all I did. I realized too late what was going to happen. I tried to stop it, that’s why I was outside, but he only gave me a ten-minute window to get out. I swear, I didn’t know. I thought—I thought Dumbledore would be there to stop him. That it wouldn’t work.”

“How do you even expect me to believe you even fucking care? You were fine with just letting him in. Breaking apart Hogwarts’ protections. But what, now you’ve seen the light?” Harry asked skeptically. There was a chance Malfoy was innocent, but there was an even bigger chance that he was trying to trick Harry into believing him.

“It’s not right, to win a war this way,” Malfoy said. “And I haven’t been on the Dark Lord’s side in years. But—he threatened my family, took my father’s wand, took over our home, what was I supposed to fucking do?”

“Not become a Death Eater,” Harry growled.  He knew it for certain, now, with the way Malfoy paled and jerked away. But the satisfaction of knowing he’d been right wasn’t there. His friends were in danger of dying, and Malfoy was the one who’d caused it. “Damn your family. There are hundreds of innocent children inside Hogwarts—”

“Right, like you would’ve turned on your family so easily, is that right, you—”

“Fuck off, Malfoy. I don’t need your help.”

Malfoy sneered and drew back. “Fine. Enjoy life on the run, Potter.” He disappeared without a sound, and the denizens of Gryffindor tower reappeared, but Harry couldn’t make himself forget about the world outside the dream anymore; the people around him were only disappointing shadows of their real selves. Nor could he forget the very real panic he’d seen on Malfoy’s face that night on the Hogwarts grounds.


	2. Chapter 2

Dumbledore’s body was still there in the daylight. It hadn’t vanished like an awful nightmare or changed in any way. Harry kneeled next to it, unable to move, unable to even breathe. He’d always had Dumbledore to guide him when he messed up, to help him through the battles against Voldemort. And when Dumbledore hadn’t been there, there was always the certainty that he could still find him and ask for help, one way or another. And now… it felt like the only lifeline he had was gone. There wasn’t anything he could do. He had no plans, no goals, no resources. Nothing.

Before grief could overtake him again, Harry remembered that he couldn’t just leave Dumbledore there. And neither could he stay next to him forever. He needed to at least give Dumbledore a burial. After that, he would somehow wrestle the strength to save Hogwarts.

He just had to take it one step at a time.

Harry left Dumbledore’s body there, covered by his regular cloak, and apparated to the Burrow once again. If he hadn’t gotten a letter from the ministry, he must’ve been right; either apparition couldn’t be tracked, or the ministry had much bigger problems.

In the light of day, the Burrow looked even worse. Still, Harry couldn’t find any bodies. He had to hope. There was only hope left, for him. Closing his eyes, Harry left for the only other place he’d once reluctantly called home.

Within moments, he was in Surrey, a town he’d hoped to never see again. Harry appeared a block from the Dursleys’ house.

He slowly passed by parents with strollers and young children out in their yards. It was midday on an unusually warm spring day, and everyone was enjoying the warmth. No one noticed him under his cloak.

The Dursleys were all out of the house on weekday afternoons. Uncle Vernon had work, Aunt Petunia had a few hours of volunteering at an animal shelter, Dudley was away at school, and the lock on the kitchen window never worked properly. Hidden under his invisibility cloak and hoping no one saw his legs suddenly appear, Harry edged it open and climbed through, almost hitting his head on the faucet. It was a lot harder to get through than the last time he’d done this when he was eight years old. He would’ve apparated, but on the off chance that his relatives were home, he definitely wouldn’t be able to convince them of anything if he apparated right in front of them. Though he was pretty sure that Aunt Petunia would still go after him with an iron skillet if she saw the mess his muddy shoes were making in her precious kitchen.

Before he could even straighten the few things that he’d accidentally pushed from the countertop, he heard a loud, “Who’s there?” from the living room.

“Crap,” Harry muttered, trying to judge his chances of staying really quiet and Aunt Petunia forgetting about the noise. But he already saw Aunt Petunia edging into the kitchen, so the thought was a lost cause. Quickly, Harry threw off his cloak and tried to look a bit more presentable.

Aunt Petunia cautiously entered the kitchen, holding a poker in both hands. Her fear evaporated into anger when she saw Harry standing there.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at that school of yours?” she asked. “And how dare you try to sneak in here!”

Harry warily eyed the poker that she still hadn’t put down.

“I need a place to stay, just for a little while. There’s… trouble going on at my school,” he explained.

“You think you can just come back here whenever you want?” Aunt Petunia asked. “You promised. You and that man, Dumbledore, said you’d come back for the last time this summer, and that would be it.”

“Could you think of it as me being here a bit early?” Harry tried. It was a hopeless cause, but he had no idea what he would do if he couldn’t stay with the Dursleys. The Burrow was burned down, the Weasleys were—hopefully, mercifully, alive but in a place Harry didn’t know of, and Grimmauld Place had been compromised. Unless he wanted to sleep outside and die of hypothermia, this was the only place he could go.

He pushed down the shame of having to need the Dursleys for something, and pleaded, “Please. Do it for my mum, at least. It won’t be for very long.” If not for him, then for the sister Petunia had loved at some point in her life.

Aunt Petunia stiffened. “I didn’t want you here fifteen years ago and I don’t want you here now. Do you understand me?”

Harry nodded.

“Your room hasn’t been touched. You can stay there as long as I don’t see you in any other part of my home. If I do, I’ll get Vernon’s shotgun,” she promised, and turned back to go to the living room, where the television was still broadcasting a celebrity gossip program.

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely.

Aunt Petunia just returned the poker to its spot and sat down across from the television, back to ignoring his existence. She even raised the volume. Harry picked up his invisibility cloak from where he’d dropped it and put it back on, making sure it covered him completely. From now on, he was going to make sure that his relatives never saw him again.

He didn’t need to go up to his bedroom yet, so he stopped at the garage and grabbed one of Uncle Vernon’s shovels. The door squeaked when he opened it, but Aunt Petunia only raised the volume again on the TV.

The shovel was Uncle Vernon’s in name only, since the only person who had ever used it was Harry. He set it by the door. He would’ve rather bought a shovel than used this one, but he only had a little wizarding money, and he wasn’t sure if it was safe to go to Diagon Alley. And he couldn’t use his wand, since he knew having the ministry after him was little better than having Voldemort on his tail. Still, it felt wrong to have to rely on the Dursleys for anything. They were family, but they hated him.

Deciding no one would probably notice, and if they did, it wasn’t like they could hate him any more than they already did, Harry grabbed a bite to eat from the refrigerator. If Diagon Alley wasn’t safe, he needed some way of feeding himself. He’d make it up to them someday.

He hoped for their sakes that Voldemort didn’t realize that he hadn’t been in Hogwarts when the barrier went up. Because if Voldemort knew he hadn’t been inside, then the first thing he’d do is put Death Eaters in the places Harry would go. The Burrow, Grimmauld Place, Gringotts… And this house, if he found out where it was.

He stopped in the living room, wanting to warn Aunt Petunia of the threat, but decided against talking to her again, lest she take away her permission for him to stay. Instead, he opened the drawer in the table by the door, where Aunt Petunia always kept a pen and paper for the grocery list. He wrote:

_I meant it when I said trouble in my world. Voldemort, a really bad wizard, has taken over my school. If he realizes I got out, he’ll go after anyone related to me. You need to take Uncle Vernon and Dudley and move or go on a vacation for a while. Or at least be careful._

He underlined the last words thrice, and didn’t bother signing the note. Then, he dropped it onto the table beside the couch. Aunt Petunia would see it and hopefully, the Dursleys would heed his message.

He left through the front door this time and apparated back to the forest. In the light of day, the site he’d chosen to rest at felt too open. There was a clearing for tents, a table, and a paved road for cars. But it did look out toward the river, and when Harry apparated closer to it, the forest seemed like it had been undisturbed for a long time.

He dug until he couldn’t anymore, gently laid Dumbledore inside, and covered him with dirt through his tears. He marked the grave with Dumbledore’s wand and told himself that when this was all over, Dumbledore would get a proper burial. Standing over Dumbledore’s grave, Harry promised himself that he would avenge his mentor one day, even if it meant his life. He would kill Voldemort, save the castle… do what Dumbledore would have wanted him to do. He owed his teacher that much and more.

Harry reached into his robe’s pocket for the locket that Dumbledore lost his life for. It was heavy, ornate, but different than the one he’d seen in the Pensieve. Harry hoped that it was just because of a difference in the lighting.

After reading the letter from R.A.B., Harry rubbed at his dry eyes, wishing to God and Merlin for the chance to go back and change things. Dumbledore didn’t deserve to die like this, for a locket that wasn’t even a horcrux. But he couldn’t grieve, not yet, not when he had to avenge Dumbledore’s death. Not when Ron and Hermione were still captive inside Hogwarts. He had work to do.

He wound the fake horcrux around Dumbledore’s wand and slid the note into his pocket. Then, unable to look at the grave any longer, Harry went back to the old campsite, lit a fire with stolen matches, ate, and rested against a tree. For hours he scrambled his brain for something he could do, for a plan that could fix everything again. There were no words for how much he missed his friends right then.

Under the shadow of his invisibility cloak, he slipped back onto Privet Drive. After placing the shovel back in the garden shed, Harry snuck inside, and lay down in the bed in Dudley’s former second bedroom. It wasn’t his room; the Dursleys had never let it be that, and Harry had considered his dormitory more his own than anywhere else. But it was better than the cold, hard ground of the Forest of Dean.

When he fell asleep again, his first thought was that he was glad that Malfoy didn’t appear in his dream. Instead, he dreamed of a Weasley Christmas, sitting with Ron on the steps of their house, Hermione across from them. She was talking animatedly about something or other, too focused on magical theory to tell he and Ron had stopped listening a while ago. God, he needed them. Ron would help him through this, and Hermione could’ve figured out how to get inside Hogwarts by now.

He closed his eyes, savoring the sounds of his two best friends, the bustle inside the Burrow, the Quidditch game on the other side of the yard.

“Disturbingly domestic, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes snapped back open, and like a switch had been lifted, all the noise turned off. Hermione and Ron disappeared again.

“Bring them back, Malfoy,” he growled.

“Need your friends to fight your battles for you?” Malfoy asked with a humorless laugh. “I didn’t erase them. You did.”

“What?” Harry was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything like that.

“It’s your dream. I can change it a bit, but in the end it’s your choice what happens,” Malfoy explained.

Harry imagined Malfoy in a pink tutu. As though he knew what Harry was doing, Malfoy smirked and added, “To an extent, of course.”

“Of course.” He glanced back inside the Burrow, but the house had gone dark, silent. It figured. Harry didn’t try to bring them back again. “What do you want?”

“What I wanted before. To help you.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you tried to get my friends kidnapped.”

“I want to make it right. Not that you’d understand anything about that. Goody-two-shoes Potter. Golden boy. You never make mistakes.”

Harry stood up, hating having to look up at Malfoy from his seat. “My mistake was letting you into my head. And not trying harder to get Dumbledore to see what you were doing.”

“Yeah, well, boo hoo. We all screw up sometimes. It’s not like I killed your precious Dumbledore myself, alright? I made a mess of things, so I can help fix it. Let me help you.”

Harry glared out into the Weasley’s yard. He knew what Dumbledore would want. It felt a bit like Malfoy was Harry’s Snape, a man he was supposed to just forgive and trust and it was never going to happen.

“I know how he cast the hostage curse,” Malfoy said.

Harry’s eyes flickered back to Malfoy’s gray ones. “Well?”

“Are you going to let me help?”

It didn’t have to be the truth. But it still felt like giving up on a part of his life before yesterday’s disaster when Harry said, “Fine. Tell me what you know.”

“I told you I buried magical objects around Hogwarts. There was a locket with Slytherin motif, snakelike gemstones, and words that I couldn’t make out on the sides. A diadem in Ravenclaw colors that looked familiar, but I don’t know how. And—”

“A Hufflepuff cup,” Harry said, the meaning behind Malfoy’s words dawning on him.

“How’d you know?”

Harry shook his head. This, he wouldn’t be telling Malfoy. The news both elated and terrified him. He knew exactly where the horcruxes were now and was so much closer to actually being able to defeat Voldemort. If he took out the real locket, the cup, and the diadem, he’d only have Nagini left. But he remembered the evils of the diary horcrux—how safe was the castle, really, with three wholly evil magical objects right inside the wards?

He had to work fast.

He needed all the help he could get.

“Do you know anything about magical barriers that look like a dome of briar?”

“Show me what it looks like and I might recognize it.”

Malfoy waited patiently.

Harry stared back. “Do you want me to draw it?” He looked around for a stray piece of parchment.

“Bloody hell, you’re an idiot. Should I spell it out to you like to a child? We’re in your dream. You can do anything here. Make this spectacle—” he waved his hand around the area “—into what you saw that day.” It looked like even when Malfoy was trying to convince Harry to get along with him, he couldn’t help insulting him.

Gritting his teeth, Harry did. If getting his friends out of Hogwarts meant working with a Slytherin, he would do it. That didn’t mean he had to like it. He envisioned the barrier, and the memory came easily to him, complete with Dumbledore’s body lying at his feet. Harry quickly erased it before showing Malfoy something like a video of what had happened.

In the end, Malfoy said, “This looks familiar, but I don’t remember how. It may have been something in a fairy tale for all I know.”

Harry snorted. “What a great help you are.”

“Do you seriously expect me to know anything about secret Hogwarts protections?”

“No,” Harry admitted. Malfoy had been enough help with the horcruxes anyway. Although… “Do the words Loch Orsare mean anything to you?”

“No, should they?”

Harry shrugged. “Dumbledore told me to find it. I think it’s important, somehow.”

But try as they might, there was little they could do.

“Do you think, if I find a way in, that I would be able to go inside? Would the hostage curse affect me even if I wasn’t in the castle when it began?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t try,” Malfoy replied, examining the briar.

Harry woke up again without them achieving any progress, although Malfoy had hemmed and hawed a lot and asked more questions than Harry could answer. It was early morning, judging by the light. His head felt muggy after sleeping for so long.

Harry stared up at the canopy of trees, thinking back to when he and Ron had taken Mr. Weasley’s car to Hogwarts in their second year. He’d been terrified at the time, but it was still a great memory. Him and Ron, the bright blue skies, total freedom… All because of Dobby’s help. Dobby, who was as trapped in the castle with everyone else. Unless he wasn’t? What if Voldemort and Dumbledore’s magic didn’t trap house elves?

“Dobby! Winky!” Harry called, his heart beating quickly with hope, but the two house-elves didn’t come. They must’ve been caught in the spell like everyone else in Hogwarts. Harry had thought that Dobby might’ve been gotten out, but it seemed he had no one at all that could help him now.

Except Malfoy, who was neither friendly nor able to talk to him during the day, but was the only ally he had at the moment.

Harry took an inventory of all he had. One wand. Two if he counted Dumbledore’s wand, which he wouldn’t make himself touch if Voldemort himself were after him. He couldn’t even look at the grave again, not yet. It was all still almost too much.

A few Sickles, Knuts, and Galleons he’d found at the bottom of his robe pockets. Enough to buy him a week’s worth of meals. A few Galleons in the pockets his invisibility cloak, likely left there after one of his trips to Hogsmeade. One change of clothes, found tucked under his mattress—they’d been too old to take with him to Hogwarts. One ally he was in touch with, plus the Order of the Phoenix if he could only get in contact with them. Hedwig was in the castle, but he could rent an owl. Countless Galleons in his vault at Gringotts. Limited food and water as long as he got it while the Dursleys were all out. A shovel. A fake horcrux.

Harry waited until both his aunt and uncle had left—his uncle for work, his aunt for a twice weekly gossiping session with Mrs. Elm—and made use of the rest of the Dursley house. Afterwards, he put on his robes and apparated outside the Leaky Cauldron, staying close the wall as he carefully entered Tom’s pub. He still wasn’t sure if Diagon Alley was safe, but he needed to do something. The Leaky Cauldron would tell him what was happening, if he eavesdropped long enough. Not to mention, he didn’t know if it was possible to apparate straight inside Diagon Alley. And if it was, there wasn’t much room for him to apparate blindly.

Inside, he noticed that conversation was on one topic: the impenetrable wall around Hogwarts. He found out that the barrier was impenetrable to everyone who’d tried. It absorbed magic into itself and attacks only got people killed. The body count from the thorns was up to two, that people knew of.

Harry took the newspaper with him and exited the pub, following a group of people through the doorway to Diagon Alley. There was little point in visiting Gringotts now, but he could still do some other things, like check on the twins’ joke shop.

Seeing the shop full of people as usual made Harry grin, even if he couldn’t see why they weren’t at home, away from Voldemort’s people. Maybe they thought that as purebloods or as bystanders, they would be safe.

Harry slipped inside, past the crowds of people and behind the counter, stopping next to the twin’s shopkeeper, Verity.

“Psst, Verity,” he whispered.

She jumped, looking around. “Who’s there?”

“A friend of Fred and George’s. I need to see them.”

She shook her head. “They’re with their parents, I don’t know where. I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Um. Whoever you are.”

“It’s fine,” Harry told her. “Can I write a message for if they come back in?”

She gave him a scrap of parchment, and Harry scribbled down a few words.

_Next Sunday, eleven p.m., outside the one-eyed witch._

_I solemnly swear,_

_The Mischief Manager_

 Verity glanced down at the paper. “All this for a meeting?” she asked.

“We live in troubled times,” Harry replied, and left the store. He dropped by Gringotts, managing to insult the goblins but stay hidden under the cloak the entire time and get his money. He also bought temporary access to an owl and scribbled down the same message he’d told Verity. Maybe one of them would reach the twins. Then he spent the rest of the day observing the Leaky Cauldron for all he could find out, and left for his room back at the Dursleys after nightfall, sneaking some food from their fridge while he was there. He felt a little like he’d gone back to his pre-Hogwarts days, as though the last five and a half years had never happened. He was again the boy hiding away from the Dursleys, with too few belongings and friends.

That night, he fell asleep faster, and found himself in the same spot he’d left off, with Malfoy still examining the wall.

“Well?” Harry asked.

Malfoy didn’t even look up in response. “I’m not awake when you’re not asleep. I need time to figure things out. It’s not like I spent the day thinking. Go sleep or something for a bit.”

“Bloody hell, you’re high-maintenance,” Harry muttered, making himself a couch and lying down. Malfoy was irritating, but he was one thing that never changed. Harry could almost thank him for it, if he didn’t find him so annoying.

“Did anything happen?” Malfoy asked absently.

Harry wondered if he even cared, but still went on to tell him about the mood in Diagon Alley, the way that people were quietly terrified for their children, the two people who’d died. As he talked, he noticed books began appearing around Malfoy. Leaving his spot, Harry sauntered over and opened one of the books. It wasn’t one he’d read before—volume thirteen of Encyclopedia Magika looked more like something Hermione might’ve read—but he could still clearly see information he couldn’t have known on the page.

“I have a limited influence over your dreams,” Malfoy said, plucking the book out of Harry’s hands. “It mostly extends to my appearance and my direct surroundings, but with some effort, I can will things from my subconscious to appear. Like the books I’ve read—although this one is too broad to be of much use.” Piles of parchment began appearing. “My old school notes. The ones with a blue ribbon are history—it should be in there.”

“Must be great on exams.”

“It would be if I could use it; I can’t both reach and successfully leave this state within the two hours we get for exams.”

Harry couldn’t create a clock in the dream; it wouldn’t be able to tell time reliably, instead just showing how much time he thought had passed. Still, it felt like hours upon hours until Malfoy said, “Found it.”

Harry threw down his own scroll.

“Binns did mention it. It’s a very old spell. By old, I mean it hasn’t been used in the last few centuries, at least. The last record of a vine-like protection occurring was when Headmaster Janus Vaisey created it when Hogwarts was besieged by the goblin horde during the first goblin war.”

“Hogwarts was besieged?”

Malfoy gave him a stony stare. “Don’t you pay attention to Binns? Ever?”

“I don’t think you’re human,” Harry muttered. Even Hermione had stopped trying to listen to Binns.

“He’s actually quite humorous when he gets into a lecture,” Malfoy said smartly. “Hogwarts was besieged. By goblins. They were our enemies, you know, in the Goblin Wars. Well, maybe not your enemies, considering you’re half-muggle—”

“A quarter, my mom was muggleborn, as you already know—”

“Even worse. It’s a spell, not a transfiguration; those are actual briars growing in a circular formation. They’re magical, and can’t be gotten rid of from the outside. It was created in order to prevent goblins from getting inside, and was quite successful; the goblins eventually decided to invade the ministry instead.” He frowned. “And then the spell was lost to time. I can’t imagine where we’d get information about it outside the Hogwarts library. The Malfoy library is ancient and I’ve never come across even a mention of it.”

“That was so helpful. Thanks, Malfoy, for all your help.”

“Blow me, Potter. And it isn’t even the barrier spell you should be concerned about, it’s the hostage curse. Even if you break through the briar, you’ll just fall asleep trying to get in.”

“Great.” That wasn’t anywhere near helpful or uplifting. What was he supposed to do now?

“Do you know anyone who knows about obscure spells? Someone who won’t reveal you to the Dark Lord?”

Harry thought for a moment, then said, “Bill Weasley, maybe. He’s a curse-breaker.”

“That’s not the same, but it’s a start. Where is he?”

“I—” Harry didn’t know. Not in Egypt, definitely. He and Fleur had been staying with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley when Harry had visited, and been planning their wedding there. “He used to live in the Burrow, but they’ve moved somewhere. To Shell Cottage, maybe. That was supposed to be the new headquarters of—”

Harry stopped. He couldn’t believe he’d almost mentioned the Order of the Phoenix to Malfoy, a Death Eater.

“Of what?”

“You’re a Death Eater. I’m not going to tell you.”

Malfoy snorted. “Since I’m going to run off and tell the Dark Lord everything you say. I’m stuck, Pothead. I can’t do anything from inside the castle.”

“Who else can you talk to?” Harry asked curiously. If Malfoy could get in contact with other people, he could use his connection to find the Weasleys… or betray him to Voldemort.

“No one, that’s why I’m stuck with you all the time. I need permission to do this, and not that many people are stupid enough to say yes to someone getting in their heads.”

“Alright,” Harry said. Malfoy sounded believable. But that didn’t mean he was going to tell him what the Order was.

“What else is going on outside?” Malfoy asked after a while.

“The Burrow—the Weasley’s house—was burned down. If you say anything about it, I will see if it’s possible to kill you in a dream.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything as Harry sat there in quiet misery, thinking about the Weasleys. After a while, he ended up saying, “I can put you in touch with my family’s goblin representative. He’s an old codger, but he’s stringently neutral. If he wasn’t a part of the goblin wars, he might know someone who was, and who remembers how it was breached. And maybe he can tell us something about siege wards, too.”

Harry’s thank-you stuck in his throat like a stone, but eventually he got it out.

 

*

 

When Sunday finally came, Harry arrived in front of Honeyduke’s an hour early. He wasn’t concerned about the twins not being able to figure out his letter – it wasn’t exactly in code, and they weren’t even close to dull-witted guys – but he did worry about them not getting the letter, or not getting it in time.

Eleven p.m. came and went, then twelve, then half past midnight.

The twins weren’t coming. Were they dead? Harry didn’t think so. They hadn’t lived at home, and their joke shop was still operating…

Quietly, Harry broke into the joke shop and slid through the tunnel inside. Malfoy had said that it was possible the hostage curse would only affect the people who’d been caught inside it when it was cast. So maybe, if Harry walked far enough down the tunnel, he’d find himself inside Hogwarts. He could avoid having to tear down the barrier.

It couldn’t be too far to the wards, but Harry couldn’t tell. The tunnel looked exactly the same, meter after meter. Harry felt so tired all of a sudden. He kept walking slowly, only because his legs felt like they were controlling themselves.

“Potter!”

His eyes started to close. He was hearing Malfoy’s voice, oddly enough.

“Potter! Dammit, Potter, you can’t fall asleep here! Get away from there!”

Harry would’ve preferred not to hear Malfoy’s voice, even if it was familiar. He’d rather have Fred’s, or George’s, or Hermione’s, or Ron’s. Did that count as only three voices since Fred’s and George’s were so similar?

“You need to wake me up, not fall asleep yourself! I still owe you a punch in the real world and dammit, we both need to be awake for that!”

Falling asleep didn’t sound like the worst idea Harry’d had. He was about to, except—

“Ow,” he muttered. His scar felt like it was being torn apart. Harry couldn’t even consider sleeping through that. It felt like he was going to have a vision. Or he was close to Voldemort.

Slowly, Harry edged backwards, until the unnatural tiredness faded. He leaned against the dirt wall of the tunnel and slid down into a slump. Exhaustion flooded his body until he rested his head against his knees and thought that a moment of peace wouldn’t hurt. The vision he expected didn’t come. Instead, he met Malfoy once again. Harry was sitting on a swingset, like the one in the park near the Dursley’s house. Malfoy appeared in front of him, then quickly dropped onto the swing next to his. He started yelling almost immediately.

“That was the worst thing you could have done. What were you thinking, Potter? If you were trying to get yourself killed—” Malfoy was flushed red in anger, although he seemed oddly worse at the same time. More hunched in on himself. Maybe it had caused him pain, trying to contact Harry earlier. Harry didn’t want to even consider that. It was one thing to have Malfoy help him like this, and another for Malfoy for hurt himself trying to save him. That was a level help Harry wasn’t sure he wanted from him.

“It could’ve worked! There could’ve been a set time limit for the hostage spell!” Harry yelled. He’d just wanted to see Ron and Hermione. He’d thought… maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe he’d been stupid, he could admit that in the privacy of his own head. “I just… I won’t try to do that again.”

Malfoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I realize you hate me, Potter—”

“I don’t hate you, Malfoy,” Harry said, then felt spectacularly angry. What was he even doing here, talking to Malfoy, getting help from a Death Eater? “I think you’re a coward. I hate Voldemort; you’re nothing compared to him.” Harry wasn’t about to feel bad about what he’d said, not even when he saw Malfoy’s expression close off.

“I don’t want to be compared to him,” Malfoy snarled, angrily jumping off the swingset. The ground rose up to meet his feet.

“Finally decided you don’t want to follow daddy?” Harry taunted. It wasn’t like Harry was the only one who made mistakes. Malfoy had no right to be angry with him.

“I realized killing hundreds of people wasn’t an appealing idea, you arse,” Malfoy said, making Harry pause. “Even if they’re Muggle-borns, I don’t want them dead.”

Harry tried to hold on to his anger, but after hearing Malfoy admit how he’d changed made it hopeless. “What do you want?” he asked instead.

“I want him dead. I want to wake up. I want to punch you.”

“Same here,” Harry said, finding it completely true. He wanted Malfoy awake. He wanted to be able to—

What, exactly?

This was why he didn’t try to be friendly with enemies.

What were they supposed to do after this, supposing he broke down the briar?

He didn’t want Malfoy to go to Azkaban. No one deserved that. But he also didn’t want Malfoy to be punished harshly, or hated by everyone else for being a Death Eater.

Harry followed Malfoy, jumping off his own swing. Malfoy was just standing there and Harry wanted to touch his shoulder, to tell him that they’d do it. They’d win. And when they did, Harry would make sure that Malfoy wouldn’t be judged harshly. He was just a teenager, just sixteen, just like Harry. He wasn’t a monster or a killer.

Just a coward, yet one who’d tried to help instead of running back to Voldemort with his tail between his legs.

 _You’re not a coward,_ Harry wanted to say. _You’re kind of brave. For a Slytherin git._


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Harry woke up to his aunt and uncle engaging in a loud argument about Dudley’s university chances, and was only glad to have a distraction from Malfoy even as he wrapped his pillow around his head.

There had been a change in their relationship last night, a change he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with. It was better to understand each other than be at each other’s throats, but with understanding came an uncomfortable empathy. He didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. They couldn’t continue their stupid rivalry when they were at war with Voldemort, but it had been years of insults and anger. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to put that behind him even with their sudden empathy.

He distracted himself with research. Hogwarts: A History might have been the most boring textbook in history, but Harry still scoured it for information on the Goblin Wars. The author was unfortunately less detailed than he’d hoped, and her writing style made him want to fall asleep. Dryness must’ve been a quality all history geeks had, Harry thought. Still, he sent a letter to the author asking if she’d come across the spell in her findings. After a lot of thought, he chanced implying that he was fighting against Voldemort, even if he didn’t give her his name.

One owl he sent to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, a second to Bill Weasley, a third to a goblin investing specialist that Malfoy had named “trustworthy, or at least likely to prefer you over the Dark Lord”, and a fourth to Bathilda Bagshot, a historian who might recognize the hostage curse used on Hogwarts.

Harry spent the next few days waiting for a response. He slept more than usual, since that was the only time he had human company. Even if it was unwanted, like Malfoy’s.

 

*

 

Days bled into weeks. April turned to May. Harry spent his days poring over old texts, yellowing parchment on magical theory, old Daily Prophets, and correspondence. It felt as though he’d joined some kind of letter writing society—he’d gotten in contact with every anti-Voldemort historian and theoretician willing to talk to him, and then he’d gotten them all in touch with each other. He’d tried contacting the Order again and again, but it seemed like everyone had gone to ground.

His nights, though, were Malfoy’s.

“We have a too many separate problems,” Malfoy said one night. “First, the briar protection. We don’t know how it works, only that it’s old and old magic is notoriously hard to remove. And if it was created by the founders themselves, we might be outclassed.”

Harry, who had defeated a founder’s monster before, was more worried about Voldemort. Still, he said, “Then we have to undo the hostage spell. It might be keyed to Voldemort somehow. If it’s held up by—” horcruxes “—his objects. We need to destroy them.”

“Third, the Dark Lord himself. You aren’t a terrible dueler, but you’re no match for him.”

“Watch me,” Harry said, darkly. He had some pretty good motivation, and according to Hermione, motivation was all that was needed (granted, she had been talking about studying). He still hadn’t told Malfoy about the horcruxes (after the shroud of secrecy that had always hung over Dumbledore’s lessons, Harry wasn’t quite sure he wanted to reveal the information to a Slytherin, even one he sort of trusted), but mentally added them to the list. “Fourth, we need allies.” His letter writing club was fifteen people strong, but none seemed like the Order type.

“Fifth, spies. If we plan to get ahead of the Dark Lord, we need to know what he’s planning. If he gets through the briar before us...”

“Sixth, Loch Orsare and the key.”

“Seventh, more resources. Money, influence.”

“Eighth, housing that’s not the Dursleys’.”

“Ninth, for the ministry not to fold. It would make this much, much more difficult.”

Harry snorted. “Seconded. I don’t think Scrimgeour would give up, but if he dies, or if he thinks less people would die if he made a deal…” He sighed. “There’s so much I don’t know.”

“I’ve known that for years,” Malfoy muttered. “What I’m getting at is that you’re wearing yourself out without any meaningful gain.” Harry was about to protest, but Malfoy cut him off. “We’re no closer to taking down the hostage ward or the briar barrier than we were when we started, and any strides we’ve made have been because of stuffy old wizards and goblins finding scraps of information.”

“You say we as though you’ve done anything at all.”

“Excuse me for not having a working body right now, I’m terribly sorry for that, Potter.”

Harry made a face. It wasn’t worth it to argue with Malfoy, especially when he was right: he couldn’t do much, other than be Harry’s only human company. “Alright. So what do you think we need to do?”

“Find Loch Orsare,” Malfoy promptly said. It looked like he’d been thinking about it. “Dumbledore told you to find it; he must have had at least some trust that you’d actually be able to find it. We—you—haven’t been focusing on it in your research as much as you have on the castle. I think that should be changed.”

“How?” Harry replied, and it was mostly rhetorical. “No one knows where it is! I’ve asked everyone I could get to speak with me if they know of it and have pored over old books for a single mention of it. I think it has something to do with Hogwarts, but I just don’t know what.” He sighed. He was angry, but it wasn’t at Malfoy. It was at himself, at the world, at Voldemort. “I just wish I could talk to Dumbledore again.”

When he glanced up, Malfoy looked faintly uncomfortable, as Harry had learned was his usual state when someone said something emotional. Harry didn’t know whether to blame it on Britishness or some weird pureblood thing. His face would gain a slightly pinched quality. And then, he’d say something along the lines of—

“Get over it, Potter. You’re thinking too much. Let’s play some Quidditch.”

—despite the fact that they both knew Malfoy was going to lose. It was nearly nice of him.

 

*

 

Harry visited Aberforth Dumbledore, who after a few drinks possibly hated Albus more than Voldemort. It was interesting, finding out about Dumbledore’s family, and uncomfortable to learn about his headmaster’s old friendship with Grindelwald— _dalliance_ not friendship, Aberforth had said, with a dark look that made Harry swallow his other questions. In the end, Aberforth was little help. In the end, it wasn’t Dumbledore’s childhood searching for some mythical Hallows or his thing with Grindelwald that mattered. It was his later life, to which Aberforth had been estranged.

As Harry laid on his bed and stared up at the uneven paint on the ceiling—one imperfection the Dursleys must’ve been too lazy to even try to get Harry to fix—he wished he could get in contact with Professor McGonagall. But the deputy headmistress had been in the castle when the hostage ward went up; she was in no state to answer questions.

If only Malfoy’s dream talent was more common in the wizarding world. When Harry had asked Malfoy about it, he’d said, “It’s a family talent, called Dreamwalking.”

“I didn’t know you could do that, before all this.”

“Of course you didn’t. It’s not like we advertise it. All Malfoys are good at the mind arts—you do know of Occlumency and Legilimency, don’t you?—but I’m the only one who’s mastered Dreamwalking in the last few generations. It doesn’t do one any good if they’re not invited into someone’s head, so what’s the point?”

There hadn’t been much Harry could say to that without insulting Malfoy’s father, which he wasn’t keen on doing. It was better to have an easy truce than to get each other angry. It helped that Malfoy had lost the extreme devotion he’d had to his father in the past year—no longer did he think Lucius _Lumos_ ’d the sun up each morning. The man’s Azkaban stint and Voldemort had probably had something to do with it, Harry’d thought, vaguely guiltily, and went easy on Malfoy next time they transformed Harry’s dream to play Quidditch.

His aunt and uncle were arguing again. Harry breathed a deep sigh. He didn’t remember them being like this when he was a kid. They’d always put up a united front. He took a nap mostly to avoid it; falling asleep had started being easy these days. Malfoy spent the whole time going through the etymology of Orsare. He didn’t seem to notice how long it had been; to Malfoy, his time was only as long as Harry slept.

“Do you dream?” Harry had asked.

Malfoy shook his head. “I don’t—or don’t remember. It’s not a good thing. I’m not sure how the extended use of this magic could affect me. And I can’t turn it off.”

It was only one more reason Harry needed to find Loch Orsare.

Coming out of the dream, a thought flitted through Harry’s head, spurred on by the frantic thinking he’d been doing day and night.

He’d done all sorts of magic on the key while at Diagon Alley, surrounded by too many witches and wizards for the ministry to be able to tell that any magic use was coming from him. It had been no use. He’d also done as many location-finding spells as he could manage at his current level and had decided that the loch was unplottable. But there was a spell that Dumbledore knew Harry could do—he’d done it during the fourth task, though these days Harry tried to think as little about the Triwizard Tournament as he could, lest he fall into the pit of could have beens.

He held out his hand palm up and placed the key Dumbledore had given him on top.

“Point me Loch Orsare,” Harry whispered, heart pounding. He wasn’t holding his wand, so it wasn’t a real spell. Not with his own magic. But if he was right—

The key warmed and escaped from Harry’s hand, only caught with his seeker’s reflexes. It pulled at him to go toward the right wall. North-ish, Harry thought, and scrambled to throw his belongings in a sack. He stuffed his wand in his jeans, clasped the invisibility cloak around himself, and got onto his broom.

Then he let himself be led to Loch Orsare.

He flew as low to the ground as he dared, trying to avoid the added chill of higher altitudes. It was a cold enough night already. His cloak kept him invisible, but it wasn’t made for the elements: rain and wind caused it to flap and nearly fly off. Harry was shivering after ten minutes, and his hand shook around the key an hour in. It didn’t help that the key kept leading him further and further north. He assumed they’d passed the border into Scotland at some point, but it was too dark to see much other than the bright lights of muggle towns.

As it came closer to two hours of flying, Harry nearly decided to chain the key down and just find an inn to spend the night in. He barely even noticed the change as the key began pulling him down instead of north. So close to unconsciousness was he that he thought he heard Malfoy’s voice saying come on, you’ve got this, it’s just a little chill.

Blinking furiously to try to keep himself awake, Harry carefully lowered himself to the ground. In front of him stood a castle, one much smaller than Hogwarts but just as old. Harry could barely bring himself to care. He let the key slide into the great big door and settle back into his pocket as the door opened on its own. Lights flickered on in the entrance hall as Harry walked inside.

Towards the right, he saw a sitting room with a fireplace taller than he was beginning to light itself. Harry threw his belongings onto an armchair and had only the presence of mind to grab a pillow from one of the couches before he collapsed onto the rug in an exhausted sleep.

He dreamed of sleeping. A tiny part of his mind registered that Malfoy was around—though he shouldn’t be, since Harry was at the Dursleys’, and they’d never let Malfoy inside—but the rest just couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes. His bed at the Dursleys’ was lumpy, its sheets unwashed for weeks, but it felt like heaven.

He heard Malfoy’s voice, but it felt faint, far away.

He felt his bed dip, and warmth.

He dreamed of flying on the sun itself.

 

*

 

When Harry awoke, the fire was nearly finished burning, only reddish embers and the strong smell of wood left in the hall. Harry’s yawn turned into a sneeze, which wasn’t exactly unexpected, though definitely unwanted.

“What is this place?” he muttered aloud, beginning walking around the castle. He found a dining room, a kitchen, a meeting room, a couple empty rooms with unused furniture piled on top of each other. Occasionally, things had a layer of dust on them, but more than that, there was an unused feel to the castle. There wasn’t a single photo frame or personal book—the ones that lined the fireplace bookcase were simply leather-bound wizarding classics. By the time Harry looped around to the living room, he was ready to go up and see the second floor.

Before he could, he noticed a door to the far side of the study that he was sure hadn’t been there before. As occasionally oblivious as he was and as much as his cold was clouding his senses, he wasn’t in the habit of missing huge wooden with a golden inlay doors. The closer he came, the easier he picked out the design—dozens of different images of the Hogwarts’ houses’ mascots, doing everything from hunting to frolicking in a bed of flowers. The handle wouldn’t budge much on his first try—the broomride must’ve left him weaker than he’d thought—but after a couple shoves, the door opened.

Harry walked into a room full of portraits, from the very tops of the walls to the very bottoms. Each portrait turned its head to look at him.

“Hullo,” Harry said, feeling unnerved despite himself.

“Hmmm,” came from somewhere above the door.

“I refuse!” from the far left side of the room.

“Now, now, I’ve always been a firm believer in merit over anything else—”

“—he looks twelve!”

“Young man, how old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Harry said, too gobsmacked at the room to say much else. He hadn’t ever seen so many portraits in one place—even in Dumbledore’s office there had only been fifteen or so. This had to be closer to a hundred.

“Psh. At sixteen I was on my second bride! If you can marry, you can rule, I say. Are you married, boy?”

“…no?”

“Not to worry, you’ll find someone. It gets dreary in these castles without a nice warm thing. How Dumbledore did it, I’ll never know.”

“He did have his monthly excursions,” another portrait mused. “He wasn’t always back before dusk.”

“Probably wanted some peace from—”

“Quit that, you old—”

“From all the old headmasters living vicariously through him,” the portrait managed to get out.

“Don’t be a downer, look at this nice young man, I’m sure he’ll be happy to place communal portraits throughout the rest of the castle, won’t you?”

Harry didn’t get a word out before another portrait asked, “Don’t we at least need to see his OWL and NEWT transcripts?”

“Those were centuries after my time! How do you expect it to be a fair evaluation if you keep throwing in those newfangled papers?”

“It really is the heart that should decide these things.”

“And the moral code.”

“And his family tree.”

“Please don’t embarrass yourself, Black.”

“You only say that because—”

“What are you talking about?” Harry finally managed to squeeze in at a yell.

“You mustn’t be so rude about it.”

Harry glared at him.

“That’s the spirit,” a different portrait said.

Finally, a portrait took pity on him and said, “We’re talking about the headmastership evaluation, of course. I don’t know what kind of disarray the castle is in—imagine, no headmaster for nearly a month now, and during the school year, too! Heads would have rolled in my time. I’m glad someone finally opened this door, even if you look a little young, dear.”

“Maybe he’s just the squire for our candidate,” a portrait said hopefully.

“He wouldn’t have been able to open the door.”

“I opened the door at eighteen!”

“They only let you take the school at forty-three, so don’t start with that rubbish—”

“You’re all former headmasters?” Harry asked.

“And board members, don’t forget us.”

“You’d never let us,” muttered another portrait.

“I was also the sixteenth minister of magic, but I prefer my frame here. The one in the ministry is right next to my successor’s, and she poisoned me, you know.”

“She was such a magnificent woman,” the portrait next to him said with a sigh.

“Back to the topic at hand—”

With a loud cough, a portrait asked, “Are you sure you even want to be headmaster?”

Conversation quieted to a halt.

Harry felt the stares of all their faces and wished they hadn’t decided to let him speak now of all times. “The castle is being held hostage by Voldemort—uh, he’s a dark lord and evil—”

“Dumbledore enjoys ignoring us, but he does have quite a few meetings in his school office. We know who Lord Voldemort is.”

“—and everyone’s asleep, but Dumbledore was able to put the briar up first to keep him out. He died from doing it.”

Not especially gently, a portrait said, “He was already on death’s door, lad. That kind of magic would have knocked out a younger man, but he’d be able to get back up again in a couple hours’ time.”

“Hush. He was a good man.”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

“We all felt when he passed.”

“I was there with him,” Harry said. He locked down the part of his brain that wanted to remember it—not now. He couldn’t think of it now. “All the other professors were inside the castle. And… maybe I don’t want to be headmaster, but I’m going to be anyway, if that’s the only way I can get the briar down. That’s all I want to do—if you want someone more qualified, I can bring Professor McGonagall here and transfer it over to her. She’d be a fantastic headmistress.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but a lingering echo of Harry’s voice in the room. And then, “It’s not that easy, lad. We’re not going to allow you to take the position if you’re not prepared to properly accept it. What if McGonagall dies in this battle against your Dark Lord? We need to know that someone is protecting the school. You must be sure—incredibly sure—that this is the path you want to take. If you hesitate during the magical evaluation, you will be disqualified. A person who does not actually want to be headmaster will never be appointed.”

Harry left soon after that, because in this, he couldn’t lie to himself: this wasn’t what he wanted. He hadn’t known what to expect at Loch Orsare, but never would he have thought it would have been this. He didn’t know who to contact, who to trust. And most of all, Dumbledore had told him about this place. He’d trusted Harry enough to leave Hogwarts to him. Harry didn’t know what to do with that.

Except, yes, he did.

Instead of returning to the portrait room, Harry explored the rest of the castle, finding bedrooms and bathrooms and a large study upstairs. There, finally, he found personalization: notes in Dumbledore’s handwriting, alchemical manuals, a family portrait over the fireplace of Dumbledore, his two siblings, and their parents. A smaller portrait on the end of one of the bookshelves closest to the desk held two young men: Dumbledore and a blond man who Harry didn’t recognize. A childhood friend, maybe.

Over the course of the day—with occasional breaks to the kitchens, which were thankfully fully stocked—Harry pored over Dumbledore’s belongings. Sometimes it was heartbreaking. Other times it was just boring. Harry came to decide that Dumbledore had kept most of his knowledge in his head; there just wasn’t much helpful information laying around for him to stumble upon.

He fell into one of the spare bedrooms at the end of the day feeling no surer of being able to defeat Voldemort than he had been yesterday.

He had to end the war, Harry thought, closing his eyes to the image. He had to do it soon. For his friends, for England, and... admitted in his head and not outside it, for Malfoy. Malfoy was a prickly asshole, but he wasn’t completely awful.

The Harry of six months ago would’ve called _Imperio_ or a memory charm. For years, Malfoy had been his sworn rival, his enemy. He’d given him a bloody nose just earlier that year! But you couldn’t live with a person in your head for months without liking them, just even a little bit. It was like battling trolls in a bathroom; the only way out was friendship. And it was friendship that had developed between them, a prickly sort of thing that Harry at times had no idea what to do with. He didn’t know what to do with a friend like Malfoy, who believed in the worst kinds of things but still sometimes tried to be a better man. Who was more than the sum of his pureblood fanatic, Voldemort-worshipping parents. He was... he was Harry’s friend.

Harry felt a little guilty about it, all things said and done. Ron and Hermione, his first friends, were stuck as unknowing hostages, while Harry was out—fighting for his friends, yes—but also making a new friend. Honestly, he’d thought he was just bad at it, having achieved only a couple close friends in his entire life, but maybe what he needed for friendship was close quarters and life or death situations.

Malfoy had inched his way into Harry’s mind, into Harry’s thoughts, and it was Harry’s own fault for letting him.

Harry had never felt neutral toward Malfoy. Their rivalry over the years had always been turbulent, passionate, anger-fueled. But now that Harry knew him better, his feelings of hate hadn’t been lessened to indifference. They’d taken their relationship’s passionate roots and twisted into something Harry didn’t want to name. He liked Malfoy, as hard as it was to admit. He liked his brain and his wit and the way sometimes Malfoy would let his guard down and just be.

He hadn’t meant to.

Harry closed his eyes to knowledge of more than one type that he didn’t want to face.


	4. Chapter 4

The Forest of Dean welcomed Harry back with a warm summer day. Unable to keep still, Harry started walking, going in the opposite direction of Dumbledore’s grave. Malfoy joined him shortly, walking next to him, matching Harry stride for stride. For a long while, he didn’t say anything, and just looked around.

Harry was the one to break the silence. “We’re on one of the main paths in the Forest of Dean. Campground’s behind us. Dumbledore’s grave is a bit further down.”

“Are you saying muggles go camping? How do they ever manage?”

“They deal,” Harry said, not really feeling like explaining what regular people did on a camping trip—it would’ve been an explanation that came from TV shows he’d heard from beyond the door of his cupboard, anyway. When he’d been here with the Dursleys, it hadn’t been a very happy-family experience.

But it had been an easier time. No magic, but no Voldemort. No friends, but no deaths of people he cared about.

“I would tell you about my day first, but mine has only just started,” Malfoy said. “I suppose I met someone in the woods, though.”

“Yeah? ‘he a good bloke?”

“He’s alright.”

Harry huffed out a breath. “He’s a fantastic seeker, I bet.”

“And irritating, too. Very irritating.”

“I’ll have you know nearly everyone loves this guy.”

“Hm.” Malfoy could make one sound into the most derisive thing Harry had ever heard. It was some kind of talent.

“I found Loch Orsare,” Harry admitted, somehow finding it easier to talk now. “It’s this big old castle somewhere in Scotland, built for the headmasters of Hogwarts. I talked to the portrait gallery and they said basically one thing—I can remove the briar protection if I become headmaster, but they might not accept me if the only reason I want to do it is to open the castle and pass the job to McGonagall.”

“I wouldn’t want to be stuck dealing with firsties for the rest of my life either,” Malfoy said, making a face. “Should just chuck all of them into the Black Lake and be done with it.”

“Aren’t you a prefect?”

Malfoy shrugged. “You don’t have to like them to deal with them. And it’s more of, well, I wanted to be a prefect more than I wanted the duties of one.”

“You wanted the status.” Recognizing the argument building on Malfoy’s tongue, “No, I don’t mean that in a bad way. I wanted it too, when I realized Ron became a prefect instead of me. It’s stupid. It’s not like it means anything, but I wanted it anyway.”

“Saint Potter, feeling jealous. Who would’ve known,” Malfoy murmured.

“Shut up.” Harry knocked his shoulder against Malfoy’s. He remembered the days when he’d wanted to punch Malfoy’s face in, but now, even this was a companionable touch. “But… I wouldn’t have minded becoming a professor at Hogwarts. I think it would’ve been nice. I’d sort of been thinking of being like Professor Moody, if he’d actually been Professor Moody. I’d be an auror and then after a while I’d come back to Hogwarts if they’d have me. Being headmaster isn’t the same thing as teaching—from what the portraits said, it’s more about protecting the castle than anything else. Or, that was what the position was created to be.”

“That’s not unlike being an auror,” Malfoy offered. “And you’d be able to order Snape around. For the short time you’ll be stuck doing the job, because it can’t be impossible to hand it over.”

Harry grinned. “I’d love to see the look on his face. He’d faint. And then resign.”

“You could delegate everything a headmaster does, anyway. And it’s not like headmastership means a vow of celibacy or something.” Glancing at Harry with a sharp look, he added, “Is it?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Malfoy’s eyes were so gray they were nearly blue, Harry thought, and swallowed. Sometimes, he looked at Malfoy and thought stupid things, and sometimes his mind played tricks on him. Made him almost think that Malfoy might be thinking those things too. But Harry wasn’t any good at this—the Cho mess was Exhibit A—and Malfoy was open when it came to the war effort, but completely secretive when it came to many other things.

“Good. I wouldn’t want Granger to be disappointed.”

“It’s not like that,” Harry immediately protested. “She’s just a friend. Hermione and Ron are going to date as soon as they can stand to be in the same room with each other, just you watch.”

“The horror. What about the Weaslette?”

To that, Harry couldn’t say much. He did think Ginny was pretty—er, not that he thought Hermione wasn’t, but Ginny was the kind of pretty that made him just want to stare at her all day—but nothing had every happened between them. Ginny had been dating Michael, and then there’d been schoolwork and Quidditch, and then Ginny got stuck under a sleeping curse with the rest of the school… It really quashed the idea of something happening. And, well, Harry missed his two best friends desperately, but his feelings for Ginny weren’t as deep. Malfoy had helped assuage Harry’s loneliness when it came to friendship, and though Harry would never admit it, he’d stepped in Ginny’s spot too.

And, of course, “Ron would kill me.” He’d probably beat Harry with Harry’s own broomstick. And his older brothers would join in. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“I don’t.”

Kicking a rock and trying to reign in his curiosity, Harry eventually said, “So what about you and Parkinson? Madly in love?”

“We’re not like that.”

“Does she know that?”

Grimacing, Malfoy said, “Sometimes. She’s not bad when she forgets and treats me like just a regular guy.” He added, after a moment. “I’m single.”

“Yeah, me too. Maybe I should’ve kissed Ginny while I had the chance. Now…”

Malfoy sighed. “We’re going to save them, Potter. It’s what you do, save people. With my help, you can’t go wrong. Malfoys don’t make mistakes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Perhaps a couple,” Malfoy allowed. “Once a year or so.”

Harry didn’t argue, his lips rising up into a half-smile instead. He wasn’t sure when he’d forgiven Malfoy for joining Voldemort—even if it wasn’t Harry’s forgiveness that Malfoy needed.

“You could not do it,” Malfoy said, not looking at Harry. “Could tell the wizarding world to go fuck itself and vanish into the muggle world.”

“Make a mistake?”

Malfoy nodded ruefully. “Probably. But—becoming headmaster wouldn’t stop you from dying. The Dark Lord is intent on your death.”

“Did he ask you to—”

“No. He wanted to do it himself. I wouldn’t, anyway.”

“I know.”

Their trail finally hit one of the greater lakes inside the forest, and Harry stopped and stared out at it. There wasn’t anyone else in the dream. Not a single soul besides them. 

“I’ve thought about it, a couple times, just leaving and not coming back,” Harry admitted, and it felt both awful and like a giant relief to say the words. “I’d never do it. I’m not—I wouldn’t. But it’s nice to think that maybe there’s a universe somewhere where I settled down in the muggle world and became an accountant.” Too private was the other daydream he sometimes indulged: the one where it had been both him and Sirius who’d left the wizarding world and started anew. New names, new faces. Harry would go to school and then university. Sirius would lose the shadows in his eyes, maybe get married and start the life he should’ve had, had it not been for Azkaban.

“Give it two weeks,” Malfoy offered. “If we can’t find another way to bring the briar down, you can take you self-sacrificing idiocy to new levels.”

As he looked into Malfoy’s determined eyes, Harry knew what both of them were thinking. They wouldn’t find anything in two weeks. Even Dumbledore had directed Harry to Loch Orsare instead of somewhere else; he’d known what Harry—or someone else, but Harry was a little low on options—would have to do.

But maybe, he needed the two weeks anyway. If only because it might be the last chance Harry would get to just be himself.

“I will,” Harry promised.

And then he shrugged off his robe, because he might as well get onto doing things he might not have time for with all of the past headmasters in his head.

“Potter, what are you doing?”

Harry toed off his sneakers and socks and tried the temperature of the water. It was even warmer than it would’ve been in real life—the perks of this being a dream.

“It’s warm enough,” Harry told him, and once he was down to his pants, he started wading into the lake. When he looked back, Malfoy was still standing on the shore. “You scared, Malfoy?”

“…you wish.”

Harry averted his eyes as Malfoy threw off his clothes and concentrated on holding a starfish pose, staring up into the blue skies above.

He’d hesitated just a little before he’d said Malfoy’s name. It felt like a curse, this strange urge to just say Draco, but Malfoy never brought it up, and it felt too late to make the change. Harry didn’t know what he was thinking. Maybe he wasn’t. Malfoy was down to his pants and swimming towards him, his hair a mess with a bit of seaweed stuck to his ear, and Harry’s thoughts kept coming back to the gray of Malfoy’s eyes.

 

*

 

The following days brought no pleasant surprises. Dumbledore’s collection of books was interesting even for a not very book-loving sort like Harry, and the portrait gallery had quite a lot to say to him, but none could tell him how to remove the briar without access to the headmaster’s well of magic and access to the Hogwarts wards.

Mostly, Harry thought of his friends, and, as much as he tried to prevent himself from doing it, of Malfoy. Malfoy’s words preyed on his mind.

“I’m single,” he’d said.

Harry turned over as he tried to fall asleep.

“I’m single.”

He wasn’t going to think about it.

“I’m single,” Malfoy had said. And the way he said it, the way he looked…

He wasn’t going to think about it.

When Harry’s mind started to wander, he thought about how Malfoy would look spread out like he was on the real Gryffindor couch. What Hermione and Ron and Ginny would think. What his parents would think if they knew he was having fantasies about a Death Eater, not to mention another guy.

They were about the same height—hanging around two hulking brutes all the time hadn’t inspired Malfoy to grow, apparently—but that meant he wouldn’t get a crick in his neck like he would if he kissed a short girl. He didn’t allow himself to imagine, but he fantasized anyway. And sometime during the fantasy, he fell asleep.

Harry opened his eyes to a king-sized bed in a bedroom with Gryffindor colors. It wasn’t a real place—he recognized furniture from the common room, bedsheets the same fabric and color as the ones in the dorms, and a bed that was his four-poster only stretched very wide—but apparently his brain had conjured this room to go with his fantasy.

Desperately, he tried to get it to go back to something inconspicuous, but it was too late. Malfoy had appeared, one eyebrow raised. “Are you trying to seduce me, Potter?”

“You wish,” Harry barely got out. There were rose petals on the floor. Oh Merlin. Embarrassment wasn’t strong enough of a word.

What if Malfoy got the wrong impression? What if Malfoy got the right impression?

With a shrug, Malfoy got onto the bed and sat leaning against the headboard. “I—”

“I talked to the portraits,” Harry quickly said.

Malfoy gave him a short, impolite snort but let the teasing pass. “Any luck?”

“None. I’m going to do the headmastership ceremony tomorrow,” Harry said. “It’s time. I don’t want to spend the next week dreading the upcoming days.”

“Ever the Gryffindor,” Malfoy said, but it wasn’t with a sneer. “A Slytherin would’ve spent all the time he could researching to find any sort of advantage.”

“I guess I’m really not a Slytherin.” He’d felt like one sometimes, with the fact that the hat had argued with him about it and the Parseltongue and the connection with Voldemort, but he felt completely at home in Gryffindor. Maybe it wasn’t the house the hat would’ve given him had he gave it its choice, but even all-knowing hats could probably be wrong. “I hate waiting too much. If it’s going to happen, I want it over with.”

“You still have tonight. You could do whatever you want—create your friends in the dream, whatever.”

“And flood the room with Weasleys? You’d hate it.”

“I’d survive.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s just not the same. I’d know they weren’t real—not like you.”

And if this was his last night as just himself, spending it with Malfoy wasn’t bad. He could bring it down to teenage hormones, all his feelings for Malfoy, if not for the tenderness he sometimes felt for him. It wasn’t love, not that (not yet), but it was something. Something that made him smile when he remembered Malfoy wearing that crown, being a too-attractive pointy git in it. Something that made him yearn when he thought of Malfoy sleeping on the other side of the briar, unprotected and alone. Something that kept Harry from punching him when he was being an arsehole.

“Potter—”

“Call me Harry,” Harry finally blurted out. “You’ve already seen me nearly naked. Might as well just go by first names already.”

Malfoy huffed. “Alright. Harry. I suppose you may call me Draco.”

“Like I’d want to,” Harry replied, and dodged the pillow Draco threw at him. “Fine, fine. It’s a good name. I’ll use it occasionally.”

“You’d better.”

“I guess you’re against being called Drakeypoo, though?” It had been the highlight of some of their days in Gryffindor, overhearing whatever ridiculous nickname Pansy had come up with for Malfoy that week.

“Only if you wear Pansy’s skirt.”

“I don’t think I’d look as good in it as she does,” Harry replied. He wondered if Malfoy actually liked pet names—despite Pansy’s many names for him, he’d never looked all that annoyed about them. He could see Malfoy maybe actually liking being called a less cutesy name. And then Harry made himself stop thinking about it, because really. It wasn’t like it was any of his business, what Malfoy wanted in a relationship.

Settling back onto the pillows, Draco asked, “So, last night as Harry Potter, not Headmaster Potter. What do you want to do?”

“We could play a Quidditch match,” Harry offered, but that wasn’t quite the truth. He’d be happy to play a dozen more matches with Draco, but it wasn’t what he really wanted.

“We could,” Draco agreed.

Neither of them moved. The longer Harry stared into Draco’s eyes, the more it felt like Harry’s emotions were reflected in Draco’s eyes. But it was only an illusion; stare into someone’s eyes long enough and you’ll see anything you really want to see.

“Tell me something real?” Harry asked, and his words felt too loud between them.

“I really don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you either.”

“I don’t dislike you.”

“Me neither… Sometimes I even like you.”

“So do I,” Draco said.

It felt like Draco was too far away, and Harry leaned in, just to be closer, just a little, and he didn’t stop until his lips had reached Draco’s.

Harry may have been the one to start the kiss, but Draco leaned into it completely, pressing closer with both enthusiasm and skill. Harry’s first and only kiss had been with Cho, and this one beat it by miles. When they broke apart, Draco’s eyes were shining with pleasure.

“I thought you were interested in the Weaslette.”

“I was, and then you happened. What about you? Are you gay?”

“As a Puffskin. Kiss me again?” Draco didn’t wait for Harry to move. He straddled Harry, his knees on both sides of Harry’s hips, and leaned down to kiss him.

And this, this was exactly what Harry had wanted for tonight. He kissed Malfoy with everything he had, everything he wanted to say but couldn’t figure out the words to. It should’ve been a rougher kiss, with the antagonism that had existed between them for years, but instead it was slow and long and gentle.

“Good?” Malfoy eventually asked.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, not wanting to break the moment.

“Of course it was,” Malfoy sniffed. He was smiling, though.

 

*

 

The next morning, Harry ate a light breakfast and opened the doors of the portrait gallery once again.

“How do I become headmaster?” he asked out into the room.

“Hmm. He’s made a decision, I see,” said a portrait.

About ten other ones made a move to speak, but Harry wasn’t having it. “Tell me what to do, please.”

“Harrumph, manners really have declined since my century,” one of the portraits said. But then he added, “Those who in favor of Harry James Potter’s petition to become headmaster, say aye.”

“Aye,” rang out a multitude of voices, so many and all at once that Harry couldn’t figure out how many there were.

“Those opposed?”

“Nay,” said a bunch of people.

“You’re just too young, lad,” one of them explained, uncomfortably. “Come back in a few more years.”

The portrait next to his shook her head. “Hogwarts needs a headmaster. I’ll take anyone with a good enough head on his shoulders.”

The center portrait cleared his throat. “Sixty-seven in favor, twenty-three opposed. Mr. Potter, you have passed our test.”

Harry looked from portrait to portrait with a little confusion. Was this really all he needed to do?

“It’s not that easy,” said a portrait, as if reading his mind. “We’re only the preliminary test.”

And with that, the center portrait stomped his staff on the frame of his portrait. The room gave one shake, like a small earthquake, and then settled. Slowly, the center portrait grew, until it was roughly the shape of a door, pushing aside its neighboring portraits. A doorknob popped into existence.

“Good luck,” the center portrait said. He was an older man, dressed in ancient robes and painted on a horse. Harry almost felt as though he should’ve recognized him, but for the life of him he couldn’t put a name to his face.

“Thanks,” Harry said, and grasped the knob.

On the other side was a small room, lit only by the large hearth that covered one wall. And before it stood a familiar stool with a very familiar pointed hat atop it.

Harry stood in front of it, waiting for it to open its flappy mouth as it did at the beginning of each school year, but the hat was silent.

He didn’t feel ready. And he wasn’t taking on this responsibility because he wanted to be headmaster—maybe the hat would disqualify him just for that. But Dumbledore had entrusted Harry with the key and there wasn’t anyone else Harry could go to. It would have to be enough.

Harry was Dumbledore’s man through and through, even when he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. He remembered the first time he’d ever seen Hogwarts, when he was just a first year looking up at it from rickety little boats floating along the Black Lake. It was the most magical thing he’d ever seen—nothing after that had ever compared to that moment.

He loved Hogwarts. He loved it even when it hurt.

Harry placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

 

*

 

_He_ _’s so young._

_Almost as young as we were._

_What do you see, Godric?_

 

*

 

When he woke up, Harry didn’t remember much of what he’d seen and felt while wearing the hat. There had been four people in hooded white robes, their voices unfamiliar but their presence the most familiar one of all.

It was a stark contrast to the many things he now just knew now. The map of Hogwarts nearly shone in his head, with pinpricks of light that signaled the sleeping students. Memories stored in the pool of magic whispered to him of days long past and branches of magic long put to rest. He knew now, how to return the briar to the ground with just a wave of his wand. And he knew how to contact the Order.

But more importantly… Harry cast the sleeping charm on himself for the first time. He was worried for a moment that falling asleep unnaturally wouldn’t cause Malfoy to appear, but he did, blinking into existence onto the Quidditch stand bench next to Harry.

It was a beautiful day, but Malfoy didn’t notice the weather or the pitch before turning to Harry. “Well? Did it work?”

Harry nodded.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m different now,” Harry said, and it felt like a confession. “I don’t think I’m someone else—it’s more subtle that that. I just have this corner of my head that seems to know everything.” Everything the former headmasters had deemed important to hold onto for their successor. When he concentrated, Harry remembered wives and husbands he’d never had, things he’d never done. There wasn’t any emotion attached to the memories, though; he was an outsider looking in, not an active participant.

“Do you still want me?”

“Yeah.” Harry swallowed. Yeah, he did. He wasn’t the same person Malfoy had kissed last night, but if Malfoy would have him… He’d like to stay. “I do.”

“Then we’re good,” Malfoy said, almost as though he hadn’t looked a little scared a moment ago. Malfoy was good at that—faking confidence. Harry couldn’t remember when he’d started finding it charming instead of irritating.

It felt just as good to kiss Malfoy as it had last night. Better, maybe, because despite the new memories and skills, Harry knew he was still himself. For good and for ill, he was Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Was Going to Defeat Voldemort, and the guy who was pretty into Draco Malfoy. This was going to work. It had to.

 

*

 

There was little information regarding Voldemort in Dumbledore's portion of the stored memories in case of the possibility of his successor being appointed by Voldemort. What he had left were other memories: spells he'd created, safeguards for the castle, copies of books that only remained in memory, and a single way to contact people Dumbledore personally trusted. The words Order of the Phoenix didn't feature in the memory, but they didn't need to. Dumbledore wouldn't trust anyone who fought for Voldemort, Snape aside.

Harry had heard whispers of the taboo on Voldemort's name during his information-gathering excursions to Diagon Alley, not that Harry had been affected by the spell. He hadn't talked to anyone outside of his head in ages. It was being used against people who were brave and careless enough to speak Voldemort's name aloud. Similarly, Dumbledore had created his own taboo, one that served as a call to action for anyone in the know. The passcode would echo in the heads of those tuned into the spell in the voice of the one who spoke it. Apparition coordinates would follow. It was ingenious but not foolproof, and obviously not Dumbledore's preferred way of contacting the Order, but it was the only one he'd left for his successor.

He and Draco spent a few days planning for what to do after the Order came together.

"Obviously they've been running around headless without Dumbledore around," Draco said, but his tone was lazy, lacking any sneer. His head rested on Harry's thigh as he read one of the books stored in the headmasters' memories. Through the dreamwalking, Harry was able to share the information with him as easily as breathing.

He slightly regretted telling Draco about the Order. Not because of safety concerns--his friends would kill him, but Harry had given up on worrying about Draco betraying him--but because Draco spend a full night making fun of the name.

"They've helped keep the ministry stable," Harry replied with the same level of heat. His attention was caught by the lightness of Draco's hair as he ran his fingers through it. "They're the reason Britain hasn't fallen to him completely."

"You have too loose of a definition of stable," Draco grumbled. "Are they going to properly help us to take back Hogwarts?"

"I hope so. I can't do it alone," Harry said.

Draco shifted so that Harry could more easily card his fingers through his hair, wordlessly demanding in a way Harry found more charming than he should've. But the expression on his face isn't demanding, just worried. "I would be there if I could."

"I know," Harry replied. He abandoned his book in favor of Draco, losing himself in touch and intimacy until all the ways their plan could fail were driven from his mind.

The next day, Harry stood in a clearing just outside the castle's wards, his heart beating twice as fast as it should. Last night, Draco had made his heart beat fast in a much more pleasant way, but right now Harry just felt anxious now that the possibility of victory had laid itself out in his head. No plan survived engagement, but he hoped that just enough of this one would survive to allow him to destroy Voldemort once and for all.

Into the empty air around him, Harry said, "Flobberworm and acromantula pastries will be served promptly at two o'clock."

It was such a Dumbledore type of phrase that Harry had to swallow down the emotions that rose up in him. Dumbledore would never again be there to say the phrase. Someday, Harry would make his peace with his mentor's death, but it wouldn't be until Voldemort had met the same fate.

In the minutes after he spoke, cracks of apparition could be heard all throughout the clearing. Kingsley arrived in full Auror gear, his wand at the ready. Elphias Doge looked older than Harry had last seen him, tired and frail. Dedalus Diggle nearly tripped on the log he apparated onto. Remus was alive and whole and Harry breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of him. Hestia Jones and Tonks arrived at the same time, wearing muggle clothes instead of robes. Mad-Eye Moody had a new scar. And, finally, the Weasleys appeared. Molly saw him first, clearing the space between them so fast that Harry almost thought it was apparition. Her hug was the best thing he'd felt in the real world in far too long. He leaned into her, breathing in the scent of fresh bread, and when Molly let go, she was replaced by Arthur. Fred and George came next, apologizing and saying they'd only been back to the shop once after the Burrow had been destroyed and had received his note too late to meet him. Bill and Fleur were there too, even Charlie, and Ron and Ginny's absence was too clear.

Once the chaos of the Order's arrival was over and it seemed no one else was able to arrive, the question Harry most expected was asked.

"Not that we're not happy to see you," Elphias said, "But where is Albus?"

Harry swallowed, glancing between these people who Dumbledore trusted and respected, even loved. The longer Harry said nothing, the clearer he saw grief begin to seep into the hope that had previously appeared on Elphias' face, but he still forced himself to say the words.

"He's gone," Harry admitted. "It happened the night Voldemort tried to take over the castle..."

Harry told them everything, not sparing them the details of that horrible day. He knew that if he wanted the Order's trust, he had to trust them in return. He didn't have the years of working with them that Dumbledore had to rely on. Harry spoke of horcruxes and prophecies and every time he'd come close to fulfilling the prophecy only to later find out that there was no defeating Voldemort until all the parts of his soul were vanquished. The only thing he didn't speak of was Draco, his companion during his lonely months. It was partly the reasonable assumption that the Order would be wary of a Slytherin knowing their plan of attack, and partly the fact that Harry felt oddly protective over Draco. He didn't know where the idea had come from. Draco could protect himself. But Harry didn't want to share the those quiet moments with Draco until he had to. The time in the dreams had been forced upon them by Voldemort's plans, but it was something Harry had come to cherish. Later, he would tell the Order just how much of the plan had come from Draco, but it would be after the battle was won.

"You've matured a lot," Remus said as their meeting came to a close. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you. It must have been lonely."

"It was," Harry admitted. Not because he was always alone, but because Draco couldn't join him in his waking hours. "But I'm going to be alright. With any luck, we all are."

It took a few days to coordinate their efforts, but the Order was eager to finally act. Harry let Kingsley and Moody take point on actually convincing the rest of the Order on the viability of their plan. It wasn't Harry and Draco's plan anymore, the plan having been altered with the experience of people with a lot more battle experience, but at its core the plan was the same.

Harry took a sleeping potion the night before the battle and found himself in the room Draco now seemed to prefer to appear in, one with a large bed and a color scheme in which green kept creeping in. Harry didn't mind, although he did fight fire with fire when he noticed the Slytherin themes were close to overtaking the whole decor of the room.

Draco was quieter than usual. So was Harry.

"If you don't come back, I'll be angry with you," Draco said, curling up around Harry.

"I'll be fine. I'm a Gryffindor, remember? We always come out on top."

"Are you making terrible puns to make me feel better?"

"Did it work?"

Draco kissed him again, slow and sweet.

When Harry returned to Hogwarts, it was with the strength of the Order behind him. The briar had grown thick and strong since Harry had last seen it, wrapping around the castle in a dome formation without even pinpricks of sunlight shining down. The Order dispersed around the dome to the approximate areas of the horcruxes anchoring the hostage spell. With enough firepower, they'd be able to disrupt the spell and remove the horcruxes. Then, it would only be a race to either the sword of Gryffindor or the chamber of secrets. Each Order member was armed with a container for the the horcrux and a recording of Harry hissing to open the chamber. It wouldn't be easy. Couldn't be, not with the chaos of newly awoken and confused students and soon to be incoming Death Eaters, but they had a fighting chance.

Harry placed a hand on the briar. It was warm to the touch, comforting instead of painful. There was nothing to fear from Hogwarts' defenses for the rightfully appointed headmaster. The briar uncurled under his hands, unweaving and returning to the ground. A small portion of it remained, knee-high.

"Attack the Death Eaters," Harry whispered to it, and he felt its assent in a wordless warmth in his magic. The briar parted for him and its thorns doubled in size.

War came to Hogwarts' steps.

When Harry turned around after personally destroying one of the horcruxes, he saw Voldemort's monstrous form crossing the grounds.

Despite the fact that he stood alone, it felt like Draco was with him, giving him the strength to face Voldemort.

 

*

 

_Avada Kedavra._

_Expelliarmus._

It was always meant to come to this.

 

*

 

The magical blast knocked Harry from his feet, but not before he saw Voldemort's body fall lifelessly to the ground. Harry didn't want to die, but if he did... If he did, it was worth it.

When Harry opened his eyes, he knew he was dreaming. He had quite a bit of practice with the strange energy found in the dreaming world, but he'd know it on sight, too. Kings Cross station was too empty, too washed-out to be anything but a dream. Neither could he ever meet in life the man who joined him at the station.

"I must admit, I expected to see you here much later, my dear boy," Dumbledore said, a smile on his lips. "I daresay I haven't been gone for even three months and you've made more progress than I could have ever hoped for in your time."

"It was all with your help," Harry replied, looking around. "Where am I, sir? Am I dead?"

"I believe you're too busy to join us in our eternal rest," Dumbledore said. "This is only a space between life and death, waking and dreaming. You've visited it frequently, though I don't believe you realized it for what it was."

"So, me and Draco...?" Harry trailed off. Merlin, he felt embarrassed. Then he instantly continued on because he didn't want to hear the confirmation that his elderly headmaster--and maybe everyone else who found themselves in the afterlife--had observed them. "I looked for your portrait in the hall of headmasters."

“Ah, yes. I had wondered if my being here might prevent it from forming. But I could not allow myself to pass on, not when I knew you would reach this place one day, and with only the company of Voldemort.”

Harry looked around. He’d thought they were alone, but… “That thing. It’s Voldemort?” The shrunken, blackened thing bore little resemblance to the man Harry had fought.

"A piece of him. One that you no longer have to worry about. May I offer you my congratulations?"

Harry smiled. "Thank you for trusting me with this, but I think Professor McGonagall would do a better job than me." But he thought that maybe one day he would like to take the job for real. There was so much he wanted to do—see the world, spend time with Draco, help the wizarding world rebuild—but one day…

"I've never doubted you, Harry. Now, why don't I help you return to your young man before he begins to worry..."

When Harry was finally able to break away from the cheering and embracing that followed his return to the waking world, he slipped off into the castle. He'd meant to check on Ron first, who was in the hospital wing after a nasty cutting curse left a gash along his thigh, but Harry found Draco there as well. Ron spluttered as Harry approached his sleeping former rival after making sure Ron would be alright. Harry just shrugged off his questioning.

"What's wrong with him, Madam Pomfrey?" Everyone else had woken up when the hostage spell was lifted, but Draco lay pale and motionless in the hospital bed. He dragged a chair from a nearby desk and sat down next to Draco. “I saved a castle for you, you arse. You could at least do me the favor of waking up.”

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow at the scene, but then she seemed to come to a realization. “It looks like you’re just who I require. I had wondered where the majority of Mr. Malfoy’s magic ended up. I won’t ask how you came to be in this position, but a simple spell will set it to right. All I need from you is physical touch as a conduit. I realize your rivalry with Mr. Draco might cause you to find this… distasteful…” She trailed off as she noticed Harry had immediately taken Draco’s hands in his. “Or perhaps not.” She cast the spell.

Once the spell was cast, Harry had eyes only for Draco, focusing on draining Draco’s magic from his body. The magic flowed frustratingly slowly. “More touch would make the connection better, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Madam Pomfrey agreed.

Harry leaned in, pressed his lips against Draco’s cheek, uncaring of who was watching. Against his skin, he murmured, “Wake up. I’m not having our first kiss without you.”

As all of Draco’s magic left Harry’s body, he saw a flutter in Draco’s eyelids, and watched them open to reveal his gray eyes.

“Harry,” Draco rasped, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

“What—?”

“True love’s kiss,” Harry said with a joyful grin he couldn’t contain. The castle was saved, Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys were fine, and Draco was awake. He didn’t need anything more.

Draco huffed at him, his eyes light with happiness. “Shut up and kiss me, oh mighty prince.”

Harry did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://crownwithoutstones.tumblr.com/).


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